


Bouquet

by Thimblerig



Series: The Lion and the Serpent [42]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Author's Favorite, Cheerful Sex, F/M, Mild Smut, Porn with Feelings, Prequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-08
Updated: 2017-08-08
Packaged: 2018-12-12 18:42:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11742912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thimblerig/pseuds/Thimblerig
Summary: "It doesn't have to be complicated."





	Bouquet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [danceswithscissors](https://archiveofourown.org/users/danceswithscissors/gifts).



> For danceswithscissors' prompt:
> 
> _If one were to have any prompts left, it'd be really interesting to see how it began with Adele and Aramis - who seduced who, and if Aramis knew what he was getting into right from the start. Was it love, or love of danger that initially reeled him in? (Well, I'd be more than happy with anything remotely Aramis/Adele, really. Bonus points from jealous four-fifths-brandy!Athos ;) )_
> 
> I’m putting a bit of a spin on the question, “Why did Aramis sniff after the Cardinal’s woman?' because I felt like it. (Alas, I couldn’t work out how to put jealous!Athos in it. Who knows, I might manage a sequel sometime, _though I'm not promising anything.)_
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

“Are we doing this?” Aramis asked, stepping into the cool basement where the Company kept its properties and costumes. Racks of ancient velvet and brocade stretched out before him, dresses and doublets cast off from noble patrons and handed to the servants, and remade, and darned, and handed down and made over, until they hung in democratic rows in the hands of the players, dusty but still brilliant where spears of sunlight came down from the narrow slits of windows tucked into the top of the wall.

“It doesn’t have to be complicated,” Adele called from deeper in. “We are neither of us in a position to drape gold chains on the other… why be coy and drag the game out?”

She was right - neither a penniless actress nor a soldier with pockets to let held illusions about whom they slept with, and why. Soon enough she would find a wealthy patron and begin another dance of finding out what he wanted and giving it, _but not too quickly,_  always implying a little more pleasure next time _._ Soon enough another wealthy merchant’s wife, or noble-born widow, or abbess with more money than vocation would ask him for his skills at… reading poetry and so forth. One always had expenses. One played the game properly and with kindness. One avoided getting heart-torn, and declined to take offense when a lover moved on.

He knew the game but this afternoon, in a cool basement away from the summer’s heat, military duties, and her pretty, witty plays, neither of them needed to play it. Aramis smiled and latched the door, stepping down the short line of wooden steps into the dimness of the basement. There was a faint rustling of cloth, the subtle drag of a cord being pulled through eyelet holes. “What do you like?” he heard her say.

“I am both a breast _and_ a bottom man,” he said peacefully, walking between two lines of extravagant coats painted in fine curlicues of gold in a trump-bullion that the audience would never notice was false. Her overdress was draped over one of them, a set of neat stays over the other - the _comedienne_ meant for more than a tuppenny-upright, then, most promising. “If you’d like to tie me up and smack me around some,” he added, unbuckling leather belts and setting his weapons gently on the floor, “I have no objection. You?”

He heard her hum thoughtfully as he turned a corner, and did not find her, only her dainty shoes heeled in brass, set at a coquettish angle under a court dress from an earlier century. “I like to feel the strength of a man,” she said sweetly. “Can’t afford marks, mind.” A fine linen petticoat flared up, tossed from behind a row of self-consciously rustic ‘maid’ frocks.

Aramis grinned and worked at the toggles of his leather coat, letting it fall and shrugging his trouser-braces off his shoulders. He pulled his dull calico shirt over his head and when he could see said, “No names.”

“Hmmmm…?” she purred from behind him. “No sweet endearments?”

“Call me your little _bon-bon_ if you like,” he said, letting his shirt fall off his arms and hands. “But not the ugly names, the bad ones. You know.” He turned. “Some people like them. I don’t.”

Her pale blue eyes met his. “I can manage that.” Then her eyes dropped and he knew with satisfaction that she was looking him over, and enjoying the view. When she looked up, she smiled and said, “Kiss me like you mean it.”

She was down to her chemise, a billowing, gathered affair of finest cambric, which draped the lines of her body, painted it, and, in parts translucent from the scattering sunlight from the high windows, actually hid very little. She stood with her back to the door he had come through, and her hair gleamed bright copper where it lay in loosened coils over her shoulders.

“As my lady requests,” said Aramis, smiling. He stayed on a step lower than her so neither had to reach and kissed her, like he meant it. There was only one _first_ time to kiss a lover, and he took his time now, tasting and teasing, enjoying the meeting of her. When they were done the tip of her pink tongue flickered between her lips, tasting him one more time. Then he grinned and sank down, kissing the notch between her collar bones, and the hollow between her breasts, her upper belly, tracing down her flanks with his hands and keeping his kisses warm and wet so that she could feel where he had been through the delicate cloth.

When he was down to his knees, careful on the steps, he traced over the swell of one buttock with his callused hand, and the back of her shapely thigh, easing her leg forward and lifting it to rest over one of his bare shoulders. His hands moved back up her thighs, over the fine rumpled cambric and slippery silk stocking, the brief roughness of gartering, until he was steadying her with his hands on her hips. He kissed her belly again and felt her shiver around him, then looked up at her, eyes hot.

Adele smiled down at him, eyes grave. She touched his cheekbone, then laced her fingers into his hair, not… quite… like a lady in a romance, blessing her knight. They stared at each other, trusting and solemn, and then began to giggle.

“They say you’re proud at court,” she said at last, curiously, “and you don’t bend your neck to anyone.”

“Oh, I do,” he assured, eyes very bright. “But only to ladies and _particular_ friends.”

“Which am I?”

He grinned and bowed his head. He kissed her again.

**Author's Note:**

>  _tuppenny upright_ \- quick (and cheap) sex with both parties standing and mostly clothed. Also slang for a prostitute who specialises in same.
> 
>  _trump-bullion_ \- bullion embroidery is done with metal threads that catch the light (https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Goldwork_(embroidery)). 'Trump' in the sense of a trick or falsity cf. _trompe l'oeil_ and _trumpery._


End file.
